


To Clip An Eagle

by Rubynye



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Kneeling, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Sexism, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:12:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: He is valiant. He is handsome. He is enraging. And all the response Denethor may offer to this blatant provocation is his own silent, defiant glower.





	To Clip An Eagle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



> My dear and imaginative recipient: I really hope you enjoy this, and I’m sorry it isn’t longer! Your prompts were wonderfully inspiring!
> 
> A general note for this story: As the Encyclopedia of Arda notes, “In the southern lands, [Aragorn] served both Thengel of Rohan and Ecthelion II of Gondor, though again he adopted an alias, calling himself 'Thorongil’.”

Sitting at his father’s feet as the day draws to its close, Denethor glowers. Above him Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, stares raptly at the focus of all the Hall’s adorants, the center of the spiraling soldiers and councilors, clerks and fair ladies: Thorongil the Stranger, the mysterious Eagle of the Star. The man is craggy-cheeked and weatherbeaten, moves easily as any predator in its prime, and has won all of Gondor’s attention and praise away from their rising young prince. 

Away from Denethor, who sits alone in this swamp of mislaid love, like a child at his father’s feet, and glares at this upstart who appeared out of nothing, like as not a spy from the darkness. (He said as much in private council and Father flayed him with a look.) Thorongil meanwhile stands relaxed and easy as if he reclined, leaning on one hip, looking through the crowd of admirers straight at Denethor, the smallest smile hidden in his short beard and his eyes glinting like his namesake stars.

He is valiant. He is handsome. He is enraging. And all the response Denethor may offer to this blatant provocation is his own silent, defiant glower.

**** * ****

In his outworn quarters Denethor seeks his own counsel. He stalks on his lengthened legs from window to door and back again across the overstuffed little childhood room; he should be moved to larger rooms by now, more spare and grand, but Father claims all the Steward’s House is full, with warriors brought in from the outer demesnes, with hire-swords to bolster their defenses, with Thorongil and all the tales of his deeds.

Denethor has killed his dozen orcs. He could commit equally mighty works, if Father would uncage him, but all the answer he’s been given to that is “Gondor needs its heir safe”. So he stares out the low window at the billowing darkness in the East while Thorongil leads his own people into battle, time and again. 

Denethor is the prince, he reminds himself, as his pulse pounds in his ears like a distant drumbeat, a call to the war another fights in his place. _He_ is prince and heir and all Gondor must bow before _him_.

Having made up his mind, he rings for a page. Bergil arrives, who once was his favourite until the boy took to prattling incessantly of Thorongil; now he favors Denethor with wide eyes as if he hadn’t had the left blacked for pulling just such an unseemly face. Feeling merciful this evening, Denethor merely rolls his eyes and gives his command, even though the joy evident on Bergil’s face sets his teeth pressed edge to edge. 

No matter. The page is just a boy like the others. Denethor’s true trouble arrives soon enough, hair damp from the bath, dressed in soft brown tunic and trousers like any yeoman at ease. “My lord, you sent for me?” Thorongil inquires in that deep mild voice.

A warrior should boom, should set the very air in motion around him. Thorongil paces nearer till he stands beside the too-narrow bed, carrying a sense of stillness and calm that itches at the underside of Denethor’s skin. He had thought a thousand words to say in this moment, but all he can force his tongue to is, “On your knees.” 

Thorongil inclines his head, nothing like deferentially, and folds down before Denethor as easily as breathing.

“My father keeps us apart,” Denethor blurts, and bites his lip in self-reproof. Too much truth, too plainly, but… Father does keep him from so much, from Minas Tirith by sending him to Dol Amroth, from his few friends there by recalling him to supposedly learn statecraft, from the war by sending this interloper in his place. Father keeps him from all he would desire, but Thorongil’s damp hair winds around Denethor’s fingers, just one shade warmer than black, and in the free hours before the evening meal no one can keep him from what he wants. From his due.

Not even Thorongil, though the man maddeningly doesn’t even try, as if not even noting Denethor’s hand in his hair. Perhaps he’s used to being stroked and cosseted buy all who revere him, Denethor thinks, and wants to clench his hand and yank. Instead he asks, “Tell me of the battlefield. Tell me of soldiers’ ways.”

“Have you not gone on campaign, my lord?” Thorongil asks, as if it were no great matter, as if he weren’t questioning Denethor’s very manhood. 

“Do you take me for a princess?” Denethor’s lips curl back from his teeth, his face stretching in something that feels unlike a smile. “Of course I have, before you came.” Three years ago as a stripling on training in Ithilien, their troop attacked by orcs during the night, and though they triumphed Father pulled him back behind Minas Tirith’s white walls. Two years ago, defending Dol Amroth’s borders, all the while hearing rumors and brief reports of a new captain in the Steward’s service. “But not since then.” Not since he’s had to return from Dol Amroth to join the Council, to watch Thorongil ride forth to victory again and again in his place.

A strand snaps in his grip but Thorongil’s eyes stay open, mild, no pain creasing around them, his cheek an unmoved dark hollow beneath his sharp orbit. “I do what is needful,” he says, and Denethor longs to strike him, mark him, ruffle his calm somehow. 

“Then tell me,” Denethor orders, “Of soldiers on battlefield nights. Everyone knows how they keep each other warm away from cities, away from women. Tell me.” Such practices are only whispered of, away from parents and polite conversations, but Thorongil’s eyes don’t even widen at the impropriety.

Not even when he says, “That seems a coarse tale to tell you, my lord,” still so even of voice. 

Denethor laughs bitterly at this prevarication. ”What, and shall you run to my Father and tattle to him of what I asked?” Still, this resistance gives him what he’s longed for, something to shove against. “Don’t tell me, then.” To shove within. “Show me.”

Thorongil shrugs his far shoulder. “Surely I can tell you —“

“Give me no empty words,” Denethor snaps. “Open my garments. Show me.”

For a long moment Thorongil looks up unmoving, and Denethor stares down into deep-set eyes dark and clear as bottomless water. Then Thorongil bends, but not as if daunted, and sweeps Denethor’s robes up his thighs with an efficient sweep of both hands. 

Denethor parts his lips, but Thorongil unlaces his breeches just as swiftly, and all words dry up on his tongue as his prick is loosed, springing free of confining cloth. The first touch of beard-fringed lips and hot slick tongue and the sinews of his knees melt, dumping him back to sitting on the bed as a little high noise bounces out from between his teeth. 

Thorongil just regards him, fine crinkles fanning out beside his open eyes, and Denethor feels heat flood his face and bares his teeth, jerking on his handful of Thorongil’s hair.

The strands pull taut but Thorongil is motionless as stone for another long moment, until he bends back to his task with unhurried enflaming grace. Lips brush his most sensitive skin, chapped and silk-rough, and Denethor’s chest locks, a cage around his pounding heart; those lips part to wet impossible heat like a velvet-lined furnace and he gasps airlessly.

Thorongil exhales a sound all around his prick, a low rippling hum, a _laugh_ , that rattles Denethor into motion. His hands flare and grip, he clutches Thorongil’s temples and drags him down till his sharp nose dents Denethor’s flesh, till his mouth engulfs Denethor’s prick, till the only sound he makes is a near-silent choke. Denethor hauls him in and thrusts up, riding his face like he’d ride any stallion, holding fast to mastery.

It doesn’t last long after that, until Denethor falls back onto his bed, gasping and heaving and emptied, unstrung and suffused with warm lassitude. His bleary eyes track overlapping visions of Thorongil sitting back on his heels, tear-tracks glinting down his cheeks into his dripping beard, as he snuffles deeply through his clogged-sounding nose, as he passes his sleeve across that wet mouth and those wet eyes and blinks, looking downcast at last. Denethor watches, and settles, and smiles.

Until Thorongil stands, looking once more unmoved, even his hair falling flat as if Denethor had never touched it. A deep breath of outrage fills Denethor, shoving him up to say he had not yet given his leave, but at that moment the bell rings to announce the evening meal. 

Until Thorongil asks, mild as ever despite the husky burr in his voice, “Are you satisfied then, my lord?” 

All the air leaves Denethor’s belly in a rush of wind, blowing all the warmth out of him with it, and all he can stammer is, “You will, you will return tomorrow, to my quarters.” As all he can do is watch Thorongil nod briefly and stride away.

**** * ****

At least the next day dawns warm and full of promise, even though Father keeps Denethor at his books for many hours, and sends more with him upon his dismissal. Denethor is sorting them with the page Bergil when Thorongil silently opens the door and strolls in, startling them both.

“Captain Thorongil!” Bergil shouts eagerly before Denethor has even caught his breath, further rattling him, and the wide smile he wins for the lavish greeting makes Denethor snarl. “I’ve been practicing—“

“Pay attention,” Denethor reminds him, with a cuff to the ear to set the chiding in his memory. Bergil gasps like it’s any great thing, folding around the stack of books Denethor sets in his arms, and as he scuttles away Thorongil watches him sidelong for a span of breaths.“Well?” Denethor must needs say at last.

Thorongil’s eyes are less mild than the day before, glinting like the edge of a knife as he murmurs, “It is said to be easier to rule with love than with fear.”

Denethor has had enough and more of insolence today. “What would you know of rule, Captain of sell-swords?” Waving off any reply, he continues, “Disrobe. Let me see you.” All day, while the councilors droned on and Father spoke over his few attempts, Denethor thought of plans for this stolen hour, of what he could command Thorongil to do for him.

But now the man sheds his garments, swiftly and efficiently, and all thoughts fall from Denethor’s mind. Thorongil is leaner than his clothing betrays, broad shoulders and narrow hips and long limbs lined with ropy muscles, stitched all over with fine scars like gleaming embroidery in the westering light. He looks so splendid Denethor’s mouth dries up, and it takes three tries to unstick his tongue and gasp, “Come here.”

Thorongil comes only as close as the foot of Denethor’s bed. “What would you have of me, my lord?”

All of Denethor’s secret, heated plans have fled. “Touch yourself,” he orders hoarsely.

Thorongil’s eyebrows flick up and sink again, and he bends to his discarded trousers, pulling out a little tin of salve. He dips in a finger, and strokes it onto his prick, curling his big knuckly hand around it, and its scent rises to Denethor’s nose, crushed herbs and freshness, soon carrying the warm musk of Thorongil’s skin as well.

Eyes steadily holding Denethor’s, Thorongil strokes himself, other hand lax at his side. Denethor blinks and shakes himself, tearing his gaze away to see how Thorongil’s prick rises, long and up-curved at the join of his thighs, and the parallel scars glinting across them both barely a handbreadth below. 

Denethor stares and stares, the blood speeding beneath his skin as his eyes rove across Thorongil’s body, pale and dusted with dark little hairs, laced all over with fascinating scars. When he reaches Thorongil’s face again those impertinent starlike eyes are shut, surprisingly long lashes trembling upon sharp cheekbones, lips parted ever so slightly. Denethor should call his attention back and can only stare transfixed at the blur of his fist around his prick until it leaps in his hold, white seed spurting forth to patter onto the uppermost bedspread.

Denethor glances upwards and catches sight of Thorongil’s unguarded moment, his brows drawn upwards together, color high in his cheeks, before he draws in a long deep breath and opens his eyes, pinning Denethor with his undaunted gaze.

Still so unmoved, at least seemingly. Denethor thinks muddled thoughts of whips and blows, and manages to say, “Well done, Captain,” as his father would, weighty and even. Thorongil nods his head, wipes his hand on his thigh, and reaches for his trousers, and Denethor adds, “Whom did you think of, as you pleasured yourself just now?”

Thorongil still does not twitch nor shudder. “My thoughts went where they would, my lord,” is all his answer.

“Tell me of their path,” Denethor parries, hotly determined as Thorongil continues to dress. “Did you think of someone you’ve had already? One you desire? A fair-faced Court lady, perhaps?” Finally a twitch, at the corner of Thorongil’s lowered eyelid just before he pulls his tunic on. “Not that you might have one. No matter how many rewards he showers upon you, Father would never allow you that.”

“I would not presume, my lord,” Thorongil answers coolly, pulling on one boot.

“Perhaps we should have a demonstration.” Thorongil’s eyes flash, and Denethor cups his chin in his shaking hand, alight with the triumph and terror of scoring a hit at last. “I have heard how soldiers couple, taking and being taken like women. Perhaps you have had such a youth yield to your charms, captain. Perhaps you might show me how it’s done.”

“I could not put you to such use, my lord,” Thorongil says, mouth wide and flat.

“Of course not,” Denethor says over the flare of interest within him. “I should have to find you a partner.” His own thoughts exciting him near as much , Denethor sets out to list possibilities —

—but Thorongil forestalls him, with a firm, arrogant, “No, my lord.”

No? _No?_ “You do not say ‘no’ to me, hireling,” Denethor snaps, and hears his voice crack, and winces.

“If for your own good, my lord.” As the last word sounds the first bell rings, and Thorongil smoothly departs before Denethor can even close his astonished mouth, leaving him throbbing with rage and belatedly realizing the force of his aching arousal.

**** * ****

Between slaking his inconvenient lust and setting out his soiled linens for exchange, Denethor is tardy to the evening meal, for which Father reproves him before the entire hall while the assemblage breathes carefully around the laughter they all wish to loose. He sits with burning face and clenched belly, unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls, and goes to bed hungry and aching and determined to conceive some luscious degradation for Thorongil.

Who in turn is nowhere in evidence the next day, nor the next. “Reconnaissance,” Father says when asked, and more brightly, “I had hoped you might strike up a friendship with the Captain! The Master of Pages tells me you have been speaking with him recently. Learn all you can of the arts of war.” Bile in his throat, Denethor can only nod obediently.

On the third day Thorongil returns, with another much like him, a muddy rugged pole of a man who stinks like a dog and unfurls detailed maps of the Corsairs’ island. The Council, roused at last, shudders and flares into action, and the preparations for battle fill the whole day straight through until the evening meal. 

At length and all suddenly, Thorongil and Denethor face each other in a passageway between the Council chambers and the garrison. They both have many tasks, but all Denethor wishes in this moment is to grip Thorongil’s arm in a friendly seeming, dig his nails in as he pulls the man close, and whisper to him of the riding crop awaiting him beneath Denethor’s little bed.

But they have their duties. All Denethor can say is “Good fortune, Captain Thorongil,” and all he can do is silently fume when Thorongil smirks at him and echoes the farewell.

And all he can do the next morning, when an age-grey servant informs him that the departing army took all the pages with them to learn the arts of war, is to smash a cup against the wall as he truly understands how Thorongil outmaneuvered him, and then clean it up himself before Father learns of his angry display.

**** * ****

Five mornings later, all the bells ring above Minas Tirith as the news of the Corsairs’ defeat blazes through the city, on its way to all Gondor. Roused early before the common hours of Court, Denethor stands swallowing his yawns and listens to Ecthelion the Steward his Father quote from Thorongil’s farewell letter. 

“And he has sent the pages to Ithilien for training,” Father continues. “He says they should all make fine soldiers soon, especially Duilin and Bergil.”

“Should we not bring them back, Father?” Denethor asks, “For the sake of proper service?” When scolded elderly servants tend to look upon Denethor as if they remember his presentation to the People in his swaddling bands, which doubtless they do. 

Father brushes that concern off with a hearty, “Minas Tirith has people enough to furnish our House, especially now that our waterways have been rendered safe. I wonder that Thorongil left at the height of his prowess, but I wish him well in his continuing journeys.”

Denethor also did not expect the man to cast the sinecure so lightly aside, but as his tutors taught him, every situation has within it some advantage. “As do I, and I bear him a great debt of gratitude for clearing the path for my return to the field and the City’s defenses.”

Father looks up from the letter at that, and shakes his head as Denethor’s heart sinks. “And risk Gondor’s heir? Now come sit, the morning audiences will begin.”

“Yes, Father.” Glowering at the empty Hall, clenching his empty hands, Denethor takes his accustomed place at his father’s feet.

**Author's Note:**

> As you likely surmised, this Bergil is the grandfather-namesake of the one Pippin meets in Minas Tirith.


End file.
